Read Online The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) by Tobin Wells - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tobin Wells
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Avenue. At 3.7 miles from the Capitol, Porter slowly drove past Holland's riverfront home just as his guards were welcoming him.
West Virginia had changed in the twenty years since Porter left. It now tolerated its openly gay Attorney General, even though that aspect of his life was just an open secret. In this culturally conservative state, few others could have advanced to the political heights Holland had with such an abhorrent sin ruling their lives, as the majority of voters professed on Sundays. But Holland’s deep political alliances and J. Edgar Hoover-like list of others' transgressions, allowed him to control the door to his sexual closet.
At 11:30p.m., Porter parked on MacCorkle Avenue, a few blocks away from Holland’s favorite haunt, the Black Curtain, and paid the $5 cover. Inside, he approached the aptly named Back Door, a dimly lit, quasi-reserved area for VIPs looking for a hook up with some discretion. The bouncers posted at the entry viewed Porter’s confident advance as one who understood the Back Door for what it was, and permitted him through without detention.
Bad Penny beer was not on tap, so Porter ordered a pint of Hell’s Belle and waited for his prey to approach. Half a pint later, a member of the Attorney General’s staff saddled up beside him to ask if he was looking for some company. “Sure,” said Porter. “What do you have in mind?”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” answered the noticeably offended aide. “My colleague would like to entertain you,” he huffed, as he pointed to Holland who was wolfishly eying Porter.
Feeling the rage well up within him a s he stood to walk the 30 feet to Holland's table, Porter repeatedly reminding himself, Control your emotions . When he found a seat directly across from his progenitor of pain, all he could utter was, “Hey.”
“Hey there ,” said Holland in what Porter thought was the most stereotypical gay accent he could have imagined.
The Boone County native continued, “You’re new here aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Porter. “Just in town for the holidays. Looking to play while I have some free time. Why? Are you a local?”
Shocked that Porter did not know him, Holland answered indignantly, “I’m more than a local. I run this state.”
“So you own this bar ,” asked Porter wryly, hoping to further offend the politician.
“No . The State,” answered Holland with emphasis, “the State. You really aren’t from around here.” Speaking slowly as a condescending teacher does for a student with a low IQ, he continued, “I’m the Attorney General for the State of West Virginia. Nothing gets done here unless I say it does.”
“I thought the governor was the top dog?”
“Not here."
“Wait ,” started Porter, “isn’t a Rockefeller one of your Senators? You’re telling me you’ve got more power than that guy? What’s he worth, a billion or so?”
“Jay Rockefeller?” Holland questioned in an octave higher than normal. “That debutant hasn’t shown his face in the state for years. He doesn’t even come in for elections. All he does is spend $5 million on tv ads that air on the 6 o’clock news and another $5 million to get the union vote and he’s done.” Pausing to give Porter a chance to take this in, Holland drove his inebriated gaze deep into Porter’s and proclaimed, “If you want power…you’re looking at it.”
Understanding Holland's double entendre, Porter asked, “So what are you looking for?”
A thin smile adorned Holland’s expression of dominance, “Well, why don’t we move to the quarters and see what you’re made of.”
“No,” said Porter, “I’m not going to an AIDS infested back room of some dive bar for a quick ie with some arrogant prick who says he has more power than the governor and a senator who is the son of Exxon.” Holland was dumbfounded, but before he could retort, Porter continued.
West Virginia had changed in the twenty years since Porter left. It now tolerated its openly gay Attorney General, even though that aspect of his life was just an open secret. In this culturally conservative state, few others could have advanced to the political heights Holland had with such an abhorrent sin ruling their lives, as the majority of voters professed on Sundays. But Holland’s deep political alliances and J. Edgar Hoover-like list of others' transgressions, allowed him to control the door to his sexual closet.
At 11:30p.m., Porter parked on MacCorkle Avenue, a few blocks away from Holland’s favorite haunt, the Black Curtain, and paid the $5 cover. Inside, he approached the aptly named Back Door, a dimly lit, quasi-reserved area for VIPs looking for a hook up with some discretion. The bouncers posted at the entry viewed Porter’s confident advance as one who understood the Back Door for what it was, and permitted him through without detention.
Bad Penny beer was not on tap, so Porter ordered a pint of Hell’s Belle and waited for his prey to approach. Half a pint later, a member of the Attorney General’s staff saddled up beside him to ask if he was looking for some company. “Sure,” said Porter. “What do you have in mind?”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” answered the noticeably offended aide. “My colleague would like to entertain you,” he huffed, as he pointed to Holland who was wolfishly eying Porter.
Feeling the rage well up within him a s he stood to walk the 30 feet to Holland's table, Porter repeatedly reminding himself, Control your emotions . When he found a seat directly across from his progenitor of pain, all he could utter was, “Hey.”
“Hey there ,” said Holland in what Porter thought was the most stereotypical gay accent he could have imagined.
The Boone County native continued, “You’re new here aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Porter. “Just in town for the holidays. Looking to play while I have some free time. Why? Are you a local?”
Shocked that Porter did not know him, Holland answered indignantly, “I’m more than a local. I run this state.”
“So you own this bar ,” asked Porter wryly, hoping to further offend the politician.
“No . The State,” answered Holland with emphasis, “the State. You really aren’t from around here.” Speaking slowly as a condescending teacher does for a student with a low IQ, he continued, “I’m the Attorney General for the State of West Virginia. Nothing gets done here unless I say it does.”
“I thought the governor was the top dog?”
“Not here."
“Wait ,” started Porter, “isn’t a Rockefeller one of your Senators? You’re telling me you’ve got more power than that guy? What’s he worth, a billion or so?”
“Jay Rockefeller?” Holland questioned in an octave higher than normal. “That debutant hasn’t shown his face in the state for years. He doesn’t even come in for elections. All he does is spend $5 million on tv ads that air on the 6 o’clock news and another $5 million to get the union vote and he’s done.” Pausing to give Porter a chance to take this in, Holland drove his inebriated gaze deep into Porter’s and proclaimed, “If you want power…you’re looking at it.”
Understanding Holland's double entendre, Porter asked, “So what are you looking for?”
A thin smile adorned Holland’s expression of dominance, “Well, why don’t we move to the quarters and see what you’re made of.”
“No,” said Porter, “I’m not going to an AIDS infested back room of some dive bar for a quick ie with some arrogant prick who says he has more power than the governor and a senator who is the son of Exxon.” Holland was dumbfounded, but before he could retort, Porter continued.
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